When I was young, I knew things. Walking through the neighborhood, I smirked at the plaster Saint Francis in the garden next door. I scoffed at the angel, half dozen houses along, anchored to the earth by concrete wings. “Corny,” I muttered a block further on, at Mother Mary’s loving gaze, fixed on a clump of withered day lilies. These days I’m older. Things once known for sure are long forgotten. I bow to all the outdoor chapels and to the sweet believers who tend them. Then I turn into my yard and pat the belly of my Happy Buddha.
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